


Fearless

by FireflysLove



Series: Lipstick, a Shield, and a Metal Arm [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, M/M, Multi, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-12
Updated: 2016-10-13
Packaged: 2018-08-22 00:39:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8266322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FireflysLove/pseuds/FireflysLove
Summary: A post-Safe and Sound collection of the life of the Carter-Rogers-Barnes household. Non sequential and apparently a little smutty. Probably only makes sense if you've read the first three.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The first chapter is Peggy/Bucky "strangers meet at a bar" fantasy roleplay sex. Also surprisingly the easiest porn I've ever written.

She swirls her drink slowly with the straw, absentmindedly watching the ice cubes swirl around in the amber liquid. At this point, she’s forgotten what she ordered, not that it particularly makes that much difference. The music plays softly from across the room, muted by the chatter of the people between her at the bar and the musician on the stage.

The bartender walks by, asks if she wants anything else, and she declines.

A man slides in next to her, chestnut hair expertly sculpted over a handsome face with cheekbones that could kill. He smiles at her and asks what she’s drinking.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” she replies coyly, her accented voice accompanying a raised brow.

The bartender comes back, and the man orders a drink, something with whiskey in it. As he wraps his fingers around the glass, she admires the strength in his hands.

“What’s a nice dame like you doing in a bar like this?” he asks her, obviously trying.

“A bar like this?” she asks.

“This bar has a certain _reputation_ ,” he says, cocking an eyebrow.

“Does it?” she asks, again avoiding his question.

The song ends and another starts across the room.

“Would you be offended if I asked you to dance?” he asks.

“You never know until you ask, do you?” she replies.

“Would you care to dance?” he asks, smirking.

“I don’t think you can keep up with me,” she replies.

“Try me,” he says, smirk darkening into something closer to a leer.

She feels his eyes raking over her form as she rises and starts toward the dance floor. She wore this dress on purpose, after all.

He takes her hand and starts to lead, but she turns the tables on him and pushes him to follow. He obliges her, and they twirl around the dance floor, her heels clicking against the wood as they turn to the music.

When the song ends, they return to the bar. He catches her left hand and examines it.

“Your husband know you’re here?” he asks.

“And if he doesn’t?” she replies.

“Well then I suppose, that’s none of my business,” he says.

She orders them both another drink, and they sip them in companionable silence, both feeling the frisson of energy between them build into something nearly tangible. It’s become a stalemate until finally, he brushes a thumb over her hand and she turns to look at him.

“Want to get out of here?” he asks.

She’s never gone home with a stranger from a bar, and a small thrill of fear goes through her, but she gives him a sultry smile. “Yes.”

They leave the bar and by the time they’re in the alley behind it, he’s got his hands in her hair and his lips locked on hers. He tastes like whiskey and cherries. He’s also very, very good at this, and she feels her knees buckling under her.

“Your place or mine?” he asks.

“Mine,” she replies softly, barely an inch away from his lips.

They step apart and she readjusts her hair, although nothing’s going to bring it back to decency short of resetting it now. She is thankful her place is close by.

The streetlights cast odd shadows on the sidewalk as they quickly walk toward a nearby apartment building. She leads him up the stairs and pulls a key from her pocket. The door opens to a dark space, and he palms the light switch as she nearly tackles him inside with her face.

His hands return to her hair and she kicks the door closed behind them, rattling the windows.

He runs his hands over her shoulders, and she clutches at his jacket, desperate to get it off. He obliges her and his left arm glints in the dim lamplight. Meanwhile, she takes the opportunity to divest herself of her own jacket and shoes.

“That dress is _sinful_ ,” he says.

“Well, isn’t fornication a sin?” she replies.

“I ain’t Catholic anymore, doll,” he says.

“Neither am I,” she says.

They resume their kissing, scrabbling at each other’s clothes as he leads their way toward, presumably, a bedroom. By the time they get there, the sinful dress is on the living room floor and so are his shoes and socks. Her brassiere lands drunkenly over the doorknob. She goes to unclip her stockings from her garter, but he stops her with a throaty, “Leave them on”.

His shirt follows the rest of their clothes, off into the darkness, and then he’s backed her onto the bed, and her knees fold against its edge. It’s a big, big bed, and she feels swallowed in its expanse as she scrambles back to allow him room.

He’s fully naked now, cock bobbing with his movement. He smiles devilishly at her, and she feels a pulse of wetness in her core.

Then he’s on her, kissing her with a vengeance, and she responds in kind, burying her fingers in his hair, mussing the styling product out of place. His lips leave hers and trail across her cheek, down her jaw, down her neck to her collarbone, and then he _bites._ He sucks a mark right on her collarbone and she swears loudly. His hands map the curve of her ribs and waist and then grip her by the hips.

She maintains a strong grip in his hair as he trails his mouth lower, across the tops of her breasts, mouthing at her nipple as his right hand tweaks the other one. She lets out a loud groan and _feels_ his smile against her skin. He tries again to get the noise out of her, but this time something else comes out.

“ _James_ ,” she murmurs.

He freezes, hesitating with his mouth somewhere in the general area of her navel.

“That your husband’s name?” he asks finally.

She bites her lip and nods.

“Well, I guess nothing’s perfect,” he replies, and then presses his mouth back to her skin, sucking a mark over her right hip.

She gasps as he sucks a matching one over her left one. She’s not, however, surprised when he slings her still-stocking clad legs over his shoulders. Her underwear is sodden, and he doesn’t bother to remove it, just pushes it to the side with his metal fingers before slowly pressing a flesh finger inside her. His mouth accompanies it, licking over her as he slides a second finger inside her.

She _knew_ he’d be good at this, his red mouth was just that sinful.

She locks her ankles together behind his head as he continues his ministrations, and pressure begins to build at the base of her spine. When he adds a third finger, she’s practically bucking against his face, and his left arm is clamped across her hips to keep her still.

She comes with a wordless cry, tightening against his fingers and bowing nearly in half.

He pulls his head away and rests it on her lower belly with a smirk.

“You liked that?” he asks.

She nods dumbly, all her words seem to have left her.

“Bet your husband’s never been that good,” he says, and a red flush rises in her chest and face.

Instead of replying, she flips him over until she’s sitting on his chest, smearing him in clear fluid.

“Feisty,” he says. “I like that.”

She reaches over his head for the bedside table, and searches in the drawer for a condom. Finding one, she makes a show of sliding back down his chest. At some point she has to swing her leg over his chest to remove her underwear and fling it off into the darkness, but she’s still wearing the garter belt and stockings.

She bends slowly to lick delicately at the head of his cock, flushed dark red even in the dim light of the room. She quickly takes it in her mouth, hollowing her cheeks, and he makes an incoherent noise above her. She doesn’t want him to come this way, but she does him the favor of taking him all the way down once, and his fingers tighten in her hair.

“ _Peggy,_ ” he says.

She lets him slide out of her mouth and looks up at him. “That your wife’s name?”

He nods, not looking at her.

“Hmm,” she says, then abruptly rips the condom packet open. She rolls it down his cock with smooth precision.

His eyes widen as she swings her leg back over him and hovers above him.

She slides the head of his cock through her wetness a few times before finally sinking down on him, just a tiny bit. Then she stops.

His hands come up to grip her hips, and then she’s on her back again, and he’s driving into her. She shakes with the force of his thrusts, relentless as he braces himself on his elbows over her shoulder, bending his neck to kiss her. She responds just as ferociously to his kisses, her legs coming up to wrap around his back, ankles coming together again. His thrusts become short and sharp, and he braces all his weight on his left arm, reaching the right one between them to clumsily thumb at her clit.

Her orgasm takes her by surprise, her legs tightening even further around him, locking him to her as her entire body shakes. Hers triggers his, and he bites down on her shoulder as he comes.

He collapses on top of her, and she takes his weight as they lay boneless together.

Eventually he rolls off, withdrawing from her, and removes the condom, presumably to a trash can.

“You should go,” she says. “My husband.”

“I want to stay just a few more hours,” he says. “I’ll set the alarm.”

She nods, and then falls asleep, curled against his side.

He doesn’t set the alarm.

 

* * *

 

As it turns out, they’re awoken by her husband coming in in the morning. He drops a bag on the floor with a thump that wakes them both.

“You could at least have the common decency to move your shoes out of the middle of the floor,” he says.

“Huh?” Peggy asks, sitting up.

“You left your shoes in the middle of the living room floor and I tripped over them. Why on earth did you go to bed in your stockings?” Steve replies.

“Oh, sorry,” she says blearily. “And I brought a stranger home from the bar last night. He liked the stockings.”

A soft mumble comes from the general direction of Bucky’s side of the bed, his mussed hair obscuring his features.

“Just because you’re getting kinky doesn’t mean you should make hazards,” Steve mutters good-naturedly.

“I could make it up to you,” Peggy purrs.

Steve looks like he’s going to take her up on the deal when Claire toddles into the room.

“Mama, why’s your clothes all over the house?” she asks, hopping up onto the bed.

She struggles for an answer, but Steve supplies one for her, “Mama and Papa had a throwing contest, to see who could get the farthest away.”

It’s a bad excuse, and Peggy looks questioningly at Steve, but he just shrugs. Claire seems to accept it, though, and nods sagely as if it makes perfect sense.

“You two have fun?” Peggy asks.

“We went to see a museum and then spent the night in a hotel,” Steve says. “Claire learned the joys of revolving doors and it took me _hours_ to get her out of it.”

“Sounds like a great time,” she says.

“From the looks of you two, I think you might’ve had more fun,” he replies.

Bucky mutters something that sounds like agreement.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peggy has bad sketchbook etiquette.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I have to suffer with Sebastian Stan's perfect face, so does EVERYONE ELSE.

_1950_

 

Sometimes she forgets Steve’s an artist.

He doesn’t usually trail charcoal dust or paints through the house, usually preferring pencil and a sketchbook. A sketchbook he keeps in his sock drawer. Actually two sketchbooks, but one of them is kept locked up so no one can find it. So it’s odd that there’s one sitting on the coffee table, closed over a pencil stuck in the binding.

It’s late, and the only reason Peggy’s up is because there’s a baby trying to kick their way out of Peggy’s ribs. After a drink in the kitchen, she gives the baby a little push and they go back to sleep. Far less dramatic than Claire ever was, this baby just has a habit of trying to beat their mother up from the inside. Peggy doesn’t take it personally.

She turns to go back to bed now that the wee one is settled, but the sketchbook draws her attention again as she passes back by it. It’s not the ‘naughty’ book, but the one that’s kept in the sock drawer.

So she tugs a lamp on and sits down, folding her legs under her.

The page the book opens to is an unfinished picture, mostly just lines, and Peggy’s not quite sure what it is.

Flipping back through the pages, she finds a lot of Claire from almost every angle. There’s some cityscapes, a few of the park down the street. She lingers longer on the ones of herself, a private glimpse into the way Steve sees her. It’s an odd sensation, she recognizes herself, but he emphasizes things she never would. It’s not a mirror, but rather like she’s looking through his eyes. There are a few recent ones that she thinks are of their unborn baby, different variations on all their baby pictures.

She flips back through a few pages that are just hands, hers, Claire’s, Becca’s, Bucky’s. The detail in them is astonishing, especially in Bucky’s prosthetic, where it seems as if the shadows give it enough life to reach off the page.

It’s three pages from the beginning where she finds the picture that nearly stops her heart.

It’s a simple portrait, Bucky has Claire held up over his head, and he’s smiling up at her. Neither of them seems to know they’re being observed, and the smiles on their faces are nearly identical. Wide, toothy things that spread all the way to their eyes. The crinkles around Bucky’s eyes are perfectly captured. The wind seems to be tousling their hair, and it lifts off foreheads in a way that suggests this was a day that Bucky’s chosen not to pomade his hair into submission. Peggy loves Bucky’s hair. It’s thick and dark and curly, and sometimes she convinces him to just let her run her fingers through it. She’s pretty sure Claire inherited it, and is thankful for that.

She spends a long while staring at the picture, not quite touching the curves of cheeks, the high prominence of matching cheekbones. Claire’s face is still chubby with childhood, but they’re under there. She’s going to be a very striking adult, if she turns out to have the Barnes Family Cheekbones.

The drawing even captures the sparkle in Bucky’s eyes in the sunlight. She can practically see their color, the same grey-blue of certain January skies.

She closes the book, feeling almost as if she’s gazed into something private, and puts it back on the table.

The baby starts to kick her again, so she rests a hand against them, and they quiet.

Rising, she tugs the light back off and goes back to bed.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr.](http://capsbum.tumblr.com)


End file.
